


The Adventure of the Three Weird Sisters

by Alpherae



Series: A Kettle Full of Corks [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Shaggy Dog Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpherae/pseuds/Alpherae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solving a puzzle is easy – as long as one knows what the pieces look like. Holmes encounters a client who is rather outside his experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reluctant Client

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, sorry. If you see something wrong, please tell me so I can fix it.

As I look over my notes on past cases that I have shared with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I wonder at the quantity that shall likely not be published while I still live, if at all. In many cases, of course, this is for reasons of discretion: concealing the identities and events of our adventures is not always an easy task. Unfortunately, it is well said that reality is stranger than fiction, and there have also been cases which – were I to make them widely available – would rightfully cast doubt on my honesty and integrity. Such a one was the Adventure of the Three Weird Sisters.

* * *

It began on a cold, windy evening in the winter of 18—. I had just finished a long shift at St Bart’s, and had taken a cab home. Between the awkwardness of negotiating the icy steps with a stiff leg, and my thoughts revolving around what Mrs Hudson might have ready for supper, I was understandably startled to find a dark figure beside me as I reached the door.

“Would you be Ser– Mr. Holmes, by chance?” The harsh voice was muffled by the scarf that swathed much of the region between collar and hat. My foot skidded beneath me, but the other put out a firm hand and held me steady as I regained my balance.

“I’m afraid not,” I replied. “I am Dr Watson, but Mr. Holmes does reside here as well. Are you a client?”

The other man moved uncomfortably. “I know not yet,” he rasped. “I-I heard that he was one to ask for solving problems, answering questions, finding what was stolen and the like. There are kith I must find, and my luck has been ill of late.”

I considered for a moment but a gust of particularly chill wind convinced me to accept his words at face value. It was clear to me that the visitor was not being entirely open but many clients were not, and in truth it would not be the first time that someone had attempted to gain access to our residence for their own reasons. Should it come to the worst, our landlady’s second-best fry pan would have to do valorous service once again: I was too cold to hesitate any longer.

“If you will come inside, then, I believe Holmes is still up and about. I cannot promise he will take up your case, but at least it will be warmer,” I said firmly. He paused, and jerked his head in agreement.

It was the work of a few moments to get us both inside, and the door closed once again. My hat and coat went quickly on the rack, but our visitor was looking around the hall, ‘though whether in interest or appraisal was difficult to tell. In the gas-light it was clear that his clothes were well-worn and over-large, possibly with the intention of concealing the wearer.

“Your hat?” I asked. The man shrank back from my hand.

“I would prefer otherwise,” he said in a low voice. “If such is a condition of staying, then best I leave.”

“It would not be the first time Mr. Holmes has had a client who would prefer his problem was not widely known,” I answered. “As long as you are honest about your situation, there is no need to fear.”

He said nothing, but looked towards the door. Rather than press the issue, I began making my way up the stairs, and soon heard footsteps behind me. When we were almost at the door to the sitting room, Mrs Hudson came out onto the landing.

“There you are, Doctor. I’ve put out a nice soup for your supper,” she told me with a smug smile. “Mr Holmes thought his guest might be hungry after waiting in the cold for so long and there is plenty for the _three_ of you. I don’t want Mr Holmes using his clients as an excuse not to eat.”

She sailed down the staircase, nodding politely at the other man. He turned as she passed, watching in apparent bewilderment.

“Is she...?”

“Our landlady,” said I, equally smug. “And a _very_ good cook.”

Upon entering the sitting room, it became apparent that Holmes was beginning to pull himself out of the doldrums that had claimed him for the past few days. He leaned against the mantle, refilling his pipe, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of our visitor, still wrapped in overcoat, scarf and hat.

“Knowing Watson as I do, I’m sure he has already attempted to reassure you as to our discretion,” he said dryly. “I would like to point out that the scarf would make it difficult to eat and, since you have spent the last six hours at least in dawdling outside our door, I’m sure the soup will be most welcome.”

The visitor sighed audibly. “It is not my identity that may be troublesome,” he said. “But if you would offer me hearth-right then I must give you truth in return. My name is Ilunabi Ashamanu."

He pulled off his hat and scarf to reveal a narrow, sharp-featured face, younger than I had expected, made remarkable by its colouring. The youth’s hair was straight and black, hacked off at the level of his jaw, but his skin was a light blue-grey and his eyes had irises of deep red. Scrapes and bruises darkened his right cheek, and his lip was split on that side.

“I see now why there have been rumours of demons in London recently,” Holmes laughed. “It was Harry Soak who gave you that cut, correct? Tell me, Miss Ashamanu, do you intend to return his coat at some point?”

It was a common complaint of Holmes’ that many saw only what they expected to see, and I must confess to falling prey to that fault on occasion. The masculine attire had misled me, but the effeminate features were now clearly feminine and the ragged tenor in truth an equally ragged alto.

The young woman, as indeed she was, answered a little warily, “Perhaps or not, as my luck has need. As it were he who struck first, he should consider himself lucky I did not choose to leave him cold.”

Holmes moved to seat himself at the supper table, waving a hand to encourage us to join him. “Harold Soak considers himself the master of the streets around a pub called _The Cat and Crow_ ,” he explained to me as our guest removed her coat, and the bundle she had slung under her arm, to reveal a dark green habit of unfamiliar cut and what appeared to be a long knife attached to her sash. Stiff gloves were added to the tidy pile by the door before she tentatively took her place at the table.

As she and I began to do justice to Mrs Hudson’s excellent soup, Holmes went on, “According to the tales I have heard, Harry Soak and his gang accosted a stranger passing through the mews behind the pub several days ago. Their leader acted first, as is common in these groups, but it soon became apparent that their chosen victim was inclined to be most uncooperative, and his followers took to their heels. When they finally regained their courage, with some liquid help, they returned to find Mr. Soak had been knocked out, stripped of his outer garments – and left half-buried in a pile of old straw to keep out the chill. When the man woke up, he ran to the nearest chapel and has refused to come out since, much to the priest’s distress.”

During this explanation, Miss Ashamanu had managed to make her share of supper disappear neatly and with surprising swiftness, but Holmes’ concluding sentence triggered a rather unladylike snort. It appeared that the food had reduced her uncertainty and built up her confidence in our company.

“I take it your estimation of Mr Soak’s new-found devotion is lower than mine?” Holmes asked. “Unlikely as it would seem, he may yet surprise us both by taking vows.”

The young woman gave my friend a disdainful look. “I have encountered daedra – or demons if you prefer – before, sera,” she told him, “And if a man is such a fool as to mistake me for one of them, I would not be surprised by anything he might set his mind on doing.”

“Indeed,” he replied, and pushed himself up from the table impatiently. The woman flinched back slightly, and Holmes gave me a quick glance as he wandered towards the door. “So now we come to you, Miss Ashamanu: a newcomer to our fair city and a stranger on our doorstep. I would be most interested to hear why a… self-sufficient young lady like yourself has come to ask our help in such a way, so obviously against her own inclinations, and dressed in such a curious fashion. I trust you will not object if I examine your gloves?” Our visitor tensed as he scooped up the articles in question, but it seemed that she did not feel in a position to refuse. Instead, she began her story, keeping an eye on Holmes all the while as he moved to inspect her discarded garments by the wall-lamp.

“My sisters and I have travelled far together,” she said. “We seek what another desires and go where he directs, but beyond his amusement he requires little of us. This time, matters turned ill: whether by chance, or our master’s whim, we were separated as we arrived here in London. I am not the worst tracker of the three of us, but here amongst such a crowd of people… let us say that I am out of my element.”

Miss Ashamanu paused to cough for a moment, and I offered her a cup of tea to ease her throat. Passing the cup over, I noticed that some unfortunate mishap had affected some of her fingers, for they were somewhat shorter than is natural.

“Forgive me,” I said, “But your hands…? Is there anything I might do?”

She glanced down in surprise, flexing the digits in question. “An old injury, sera. I live and fight yet, so it matters little to me now, but your kindness is appreciated.”

“If you don’t mind my questions, what does ‘sera’ mean?” I asked, remembering how her speech had slipped on the doorstep. “It is not a term I have come across before.”

“A habit older than my fingers,” she replied with an embarrassed smile. “It is a term of respect I learned in my youth and never quite lost.” Her look turned sly as she continued. “There are other terms I may yet recall for one who asks questions but does _not_ wish to hear the answers.”

I glanced over to the side where Holmes was pacing back and forward, apparently engrossed in his examination to the exclusion of all else. “I assure you, Holmes would be able to repeat your words back to you if necessary. When he appears the most distracted is when he is paying the most attention,” I said. “Please, go on with your tale. Perhaps you could describe your friends to us?”

Miss Ashamanu looked doubtfully at Holmes. “As you say, then. Besides myself, there is Mogak gra-Barak, and Hahnuviing. Mog is an Orsimer, from Cyrodiil originally, and she has spent much time in travelling so she is very tanned. She is not quite so tall as your friend, but certainly broader across the shoulders. Long, dark-blonde hair: she tries to keep it braided but the ties will break. When I saw her last she was dressed for war, but such attire would be extremely noticeable here, and I think it likely that she has tried to conceal it as I have done. Beyond that, she would not be likely to hide herself. She deals easily with other people, as I do not.”

“And the other is called Hahnuviing?” Holmes asked abruptly. “A strange name indeed.”

“Jel is not an easy tongue for soft-skins,” she replied, smiling. “Hahnu grew tired of the way we mangled her name in its original form, so she told us to use that one instead. I believe it is a direct translation into the Dovahzul, but in truth I have never asked her.”

“And what does this Hahnuviing look like?” my friend asked. Whereas before he had been amused and tolerant of our strange client, in the last few minutes he appeared to have become slightly unsettled. I had seen this mood but seldom, when the clues he was presented with could not be reconciled. It did not escape my attention that, in his wandering, he had shifted around the room in such a way that he was now beside my desk – and the drawer in which my old service revolver was kept.

Miss Ashamanu coughed again, seeming once more wary and uncertain. I could not tell whether this was in response to the rising mood in the room, or merely the topic of conversation. Her cup rattled against its saucer as she carefully set it down beside the soup bowl and rested her clasped hands on the edge of the table, I suspected in an attempt to hide her unease.

“Hahnu is an Argonian. Her family was one of the Eastern tribes, by her looks, but Mog and I first met her in Skyrim of all places.” She paused, and bit her lip. “Judging by the issues I have had, and no doubt Mog as well, I would guess that her kin are not known here either?”

Holmes said nothing, and I shook my head. “I have not heard the name before.”

“She is… she is darker than the norm here, from what I have seen of your people. Taller than I when she stands up straight, but that is rare. The last time I saw her she was dressed in a blue tunic and shawl. She is fond of the water and of heat, and usually very quiet. If she came across a place that was warm and safe, she would likely remain there, although she could endure this weather if it was needful. I do not think she could pass unnoticed in this city, although I have heard nothing of her.”

“When and where did you last see them?” Holmes asked.

“In the Isles before we left, for certain. It may be that we arrived close together and were scattered by the crowds, although I cannot see how I could have missed Mog for all of that. That was perhaps a fortnight past, if my count can be trusted.”

“And what, precisely, did you come to London to find?”

“I do not know,” she said with a shrug. “Hahnu may have puzzled it out, perhaps. It affords more amusement to our master if we are to discover what he wants as well as where to find it. On occasion, we have even managed to surprise him. But he often arranges only for our arrival and our return home: all else is our own affair.”

Holmes pondered this for a few minutes, weighing the gloves in his hands. Suddenly, he tossed them over the sofa to the young lady, who caught them easily. As she pulled them on, I could see that they were in fact made of some stiff, creamy material, appearing almost gauntlet-like. The fingers on each were linked together in such a fashion that the empty sockets bent with the rest.

“I shall make certain enquiries regarding your companions,” said Holmes. “More than that I will not promise, but if you return in, hmm, let us say a week? I may have some information for you then.”

Miss Ashamanu nodded. “That is well enough,” she replied and got up to gather her belongings, swinging on bundle and coat with practiced ease. “For food and hearth-fire, I am grateful; I shall not ask more of you than has been already granted me.” The last phrase had a ritualistic feel, but the lady had taken up hat and scarf and whisked herself out the door before either of us could blink.

I turned to Holmes in some confusion. Besides our guest’s hurried exit, it was rare for him to permit a client to withhold information, and even I could see that the young lady had not told all she knew. It was most unlike him not to question her further, even follow her out. Holmes paced slowly around the sofa and stretched himself out upon it, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe.

“It is late, I know, Watson, and I will not keep you from your rest much longer. Tell me, what deductions have you made regarding Miss Ilunabi Ashamanu?” he finally asked.

I was by no means his equal in this game, but in the area of my own expertise I could speak with some authority. “I would say that she suffered from limited food as a child; judging by her build and by her manners at table.” Holmes nodded in agreement, and I went on. “Also during that time she endured an abrasive atmosphere resulting in the damage to her voice – coal dust or sulphur, perhaps. The timbre did not sound quite right for an illness to me, although I could be mistaken. The tint of her skin could be indicative of some form of chronic silver poisoning, but I’m not sure what could affect her eyes in that fashion.”

“What of her hands?”

“I could hardly insist on a close examination, Holmes,” I muttered. “From the glimpses I had, several phalanges had been amputated on both hands. Were I to guess, judging by the scars, it might be that the original damage was caused by scavengers of some kind. What would you say about her?”

Holmes was silent for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep. “I would say that her descriptions were so vague as to be almost useless, and that she limited her words to what she thought we would believe without question,” he said eventually. “It may be an attempt at a hoax or a trap. It may be that her 'sisters' are as unique as the young lady herself.” And not another word did he utter that night.


	2. The Peaceful Smuggler

I was on full shifts for the next few days, and Holmes spent much time out and about at odd hours. A number of minor cases had arrived in the post over that time — a missing parrot, a deceitful son, and an art theft from Bethlam Royal of all places — so it was difficult for me to tell if the papers and documents gradually building up in our sitting room (largely maps) were linked to our unusual client or simply part of normal research.

When my roster finally allowed me a day at home, I spent it beside the fireplace with one of my old books, resting my leg. As the fine afternoon drew to a close Holmes had turned up again and he was now sprawled in the other armchair with a old atlas and some scrap-paper, scribbling notes and tossing occasional questions my way regarding some of the stranger places I had seen. I suppose that I should not have been surprised that the rare peace was broken by an urgent telegram.

Holmes eagerly snatched the telegram and tossed some coins to the messenger-boy, only to look up in surprise.

“Odd. It appears that Lestrade has run into some trouble regarding the new smuggling route he was investigating. Such a minor matter should not be beyond his capabilities, or so I would have thought. In any case, he claims to require the presence of us both at a certain warehouse within the hour,” Holmes said. “Given that Scotland Yard has been planning a raid on that place for the last week, I think I am justified in humouring the good inspector. If nothing else, it will make it harder for him to object the next time I have need of his assistance.”

Long practice had us in a cab and on our way soon enough, and Holmes spent the short journey in silent thought. The warehouse turned out to be shabby and grey in a row of similarly dingy buildings, distinguished only by the presence of several bedraggled smugglers being manhandled into a Black Maria. Our driver was most reluctant to wait, as this part of London did not have the best of reputations, but my friend soon had him convinced otherwise with the promise of double fare to come.

One of the constables directed us through to the main area, a large room filled with old barrels and smelling strongly of paint and turpentine. I’m afraid my medical instincts took over almost immediately, and I focused my attention on three of Lestrade’s men who had been injured in the raid. Thankfully, there was nothing more serious than a cut scalp, but it took me a few moments to notice the three-way argument going on in the only clear space in the room (much to Holmes’ amusement).

Despite his lack of height, Lestrade has been known to intimidate the worst of criminals whilst both out-massed and out-numbered. In this particular situation, he was holding his own with impressive volume against a tow-headed thug with far too many tattoos for respectability, who was under the impression that the Metropolitan Police were somehow cheating by doing their duty. The constables hanging onto each arm seemed almost surplus to requirements.

Occasionally, the smuggler turned his anger on the third person in this confrontation: an amazonian figure in a man’s shirt and trousers that even (or, were I to be coarse, especially) a blind man would be able to identify as female. The woman was not quite six-foot in height, but I would not claim that her shoulders were any less broad than those of Inspector Bradstreet, generally agreed to be the largest policeman in London. Dark blonde beneath her hat, and as tanned as any sailor, the dim light gave her complexion a jaundiced tone and the unfortunate impression was completed by the fact that her lower canines were overgrown to the point that they crossed her upper lip. The resulting lisp did not interfere with her ability to explain to her erstwhile employer precisely how and why he was a fool, at length, in detail, and without even once slipping into blasphemy or obscenity. Her attitude towards the policemen, on the other hand, was rather more conciliatory and apologetic, if no less colourful.

“If I’d known the senseless son of a half-baked baliwog hadn’t allowed for the guard then I’d never have taken the job in the first place,” she insisted. “Smuggling’s one thing if it’s planned to pay them off or run for it, but the fool never said aught of fighting it out.”  The smuggler attempted to regain control of the conversation, but the woman turned on him and kept talking. “Don’t worry yourself, you told me! They’ll be handled if they show, you told me! You don’t handle the guard by taking them head-on, you nit-witted excuse for an addled egg! If you’re clumsy enough to get caught, you do as you’re told and take your lumps as they give ‘em. You thump a guardsman and they come down on you like a stone grummite. Kill a guardsman, accident or no, and you might as well take a knife to yourself here and now, save ‘em the trouble! I’m not _that_ crazed!”

At this point, Lestrade caught Holmes’ eye and beckoned him over. “So good of you to come by, Mr. Holmes,” he said dryly. “This woman wouldn’t happen to be one of the ‘interesting’ people you asked me to keep an eye out for, by any chance?”

The thug choked, and fell into a strangled silence at my friend’s name. The woman, on the other hand, had politely halted her tirade as soon as Lestrade spoke, and she watched Holmes make his way through the clutter of smuggled goods with curious eyes.

“I believe so,” Holmes replied, his gaze flickering over clothes and shoes. “Miss gra-Barak, correct?”

The woman looked at him blankly for a moment, then gave him a most alarming grin. “I suppose so, sir, not that I’m much for titles. ‘Mog’ gets my attention quicker than aught else, but if you know the rest then it must have been Nabi or Hahnu who gave it to you. Are they well?”

“If by ‘Nabi’, you refer to a woman calling herself Ilunabi Ashamanu, then I believe she is looking after herself quite capably,” my friend said. “Unfortunately, the descriptions she provided for both you and Miss Hahnuviing were notable for how much they did not cover, and the third of your company has not yet come to my attention. Perhaps you might be able to remedy the lack of information?”

At this, Miss gra-Barak appeared a little nervous. Upon further questioning, she admitted that ‘Nabi’ believed that she trusted too easily, and she was reluctant to reveal details that the other had seen fit to hide.

“It’s not that I think you untrusty, sirs. The guardsman – sorry, the Inspector here has been very kind, considering I knocked one of his lads into a wall afore I saw the truth of the matter, and he seems to think well of you. It’s just that I thought Mathers here were trusty enough, and he set me against the guard. I’m in too much of a hole as-is to keep digging.”

Mathers began howling again when his name came up, and Lestrade directed the constables to remove their charge from the premises before he deafened us all. This was easier than expected, as Miss gra-Barak gave him an experienced cuff on the ear when he struggled and instructed him to “behave, you fool. Haven’t you annoyed the guard enough?” It was probably the threat of the lady’s displeasure, rather than that of the law, which reduced the thug to cowed obedience.

Under the circumstances, there appeared to be no reason to remain in the badly-lit and evil-smelling warehouse. We paused to allow Miss gra-Barak to collect her jacket and a large pack from under a pile of discarded canvas and bedraggled rags, before making our way back out into the fresh air. Out on the roadside, Holmes ignored the driver waiting impatiently and turned to the woman.

“Now then, Miss gra-Barak,” said he, with a determined look in his eye. “I quite understand your tendency to paranoia, given the situation, but the fact remains that you are no position to withhold information. Your continued freedom depends largely on Inspector Lestrade’s goodwill, such as it is, and any potential reunion with your companions will depend on mine. An adequate description of the missing is all I need.”

The woman bit her lip and nodded. “Well, Hahnu’s about this high when standing tall, sirs,” she said, waving one hand a little below her collar. “She holds her head about a handspan or two lower, in the normal way of things…”

“Miss Ashamanu mentioned the varying height,” Holmes interrupted. “She did not, however, mention a hair colour or any other distinguishing marks. Considering the details she failed to provide about you, I must confess to finding this worrying.”

“Well, Hahnu doesn’t have hair,” Miss gra-Barak said, rubbing the bridge of her nose with an embrassed expression. “Argonians don’t, y’see.”

Silence fell, and Holmes blinked in bemusement. “Miss gra-Barak, should we be looking for this Hahnu in the zoological gardens?” he asked abruptly. “Or perhaps talking to the boatmen about any strange creatures they may have seen by the river?”

Reluctance was clear on the woman’s face, but she nodded again. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been mistaken for a common animal,” she said.

I couldn’t think what to say to this surprising turn, but Lestrade suddenly dug out his notebook and began flipping through it, muttering to himself. Over his shoulder I could see the idiosyncratic form of shorthand the Inspector used for note-taking and recording interviews; the symbol representing Holmes appeared at irregular intervals but I could not recognize anything else. He stopped to read down one page and half of the next before looking up.

“Reptilian?” Lestrade asked. “Water-breathing? Scales, sharp teeth, tail, claws, horns? Looks rather like a small, carnivorous dinosaur?” The woman had nodded repeatedly as he rattled off the questions, but the last confused her.

“What’s a dinosaur?”

Lestrade merely sighed and began waving us all towards the waiting cab. “I’ll explain on the way.”


	3. The Intelligent Animal

“I must congratulate you, Lestrade,” Holmes drawled. “I had not thought you possessed sufficient imagination to solve this unusual puzzle.”

Lestrade gave my friend a sour look, and shook his head. “Imagination wasn’t the solution at all, Mr Holmes. Quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn’t until I pared back my assumptions to the information you provided – and nothing more – that the whole mess began to make sense to me.”

“If I may, sir, what is a dinosaur?” Miss gra-Barak asked plaintively. She had sat quietly through the negotiations with the cab driver, and the mild sniping between Holmes and the Inspector as we rattled along. Given her words earlier, I suspected that she was well acquainted with the greyer shades of society, one of those who walk the line of legality and pride themselves on never crossing it too far. Being trapped in a moving cab with an officer of the law and a consulting detective appeared to unnerve her.

The Inspector rubbed his temples and sighed. "My apologies, Miss gra-Barak, I was distracted. A dinosaur is a particular type of a large reptile. They are generally considered to be extinct, but we've been getting complaints from the wharves about a live one being seen in the river near Wapping. The universities and the zoo have both shown an interest, but so far no one has had any luck in capturing the creature.

Miss gra-Barak's eyebrows went up, and her mouth twitched, “Lucky for them they didn't, I'd say. Hahnu's a patient sort, but things tend to get messy when she loses her temper. Loud too, which you haven't mentioned, so I'd bet she's been having fun playing hide-and-seek.”

“Oddly enough,” Holmes said, “Miss Ashamanu told us quite the opposite. Can you explain this?”

The woman blinked at him. “Told you she wasn't loud, you mean? Well, she isn't, right up until she is, if you catch my drift.” She braced herself as the cab took the turn a little too quickly, and went on, “Generally, people can't tell they've got her goat until everything goes flying, and it's too late for 'sorry' then.”

“Luckily,” Lestrade said, “Matters do not appear to have reached that point yet.” He leaned forward to look out the window as our cab slowed, and nodded to himself. “Here we are, then. Shall we retrieve your wandering friend before the situation changes?”

The four of us extracted ourselves from the cab. Lestrade entered a nearby warehouse marked with the crossed carronades of the Carron Shipping Company, hoping for fresh news of the Wapping dinosaur, while Holmes slipped away to find less respectable sources of information. Left to my own devices, I followed Miss gra-Barak as she made her way along the busy lane, weaving between the workers to reach the water, extracting a bright vermillion blanket from her pack as she walked.

“Could you hold this for me, sir?” she asked as she thrust the bulky thing into my arms. “Weather like this, Hahnu's probably freezing.”

“I take it that she is cold-blooded?” I asked.

Miss gra-Barak eyed a set of ice-slicked steps and shook her head. “She's never been frostbit, sir, and shoes aren't really an option for her,” she said, before she clamped her hands on a rail and edged gingerly down the steps to a small, unused jetty just on the waterline. “She grew up in the Marsh, though,” she added over her shoulder. “Muggy doesn't even begin to describe it.”

The tide was high, and the level of the jetty was just low enough to be covered by a layer of slushy water, unpleasant but safer than the ice. Miss gra-Barak stepped down with no concern for her boots, although I had elected to remain securely on the wharf above along with the blanket.

She gave the river a searching look, before throwing her head back and singing out a phrase of some work chanty, or so it seemed for it was in no language I have ever heard before or since. Her voice rang out clearly over the water, cutting through the noise and bustle, and we began to attract a number of gawkers. Lestrade pushed through the growing crowd to stand beside me and looked down, eyebrows raised.

“Well, well,” he said. “I suppose she does have the build for opera.”

“Any news of the, um, dinosaur?” I asked, and Lestrade nodded.

“Apparently, it was glimpsed beside a barge two days ago,” he replied. Anything more he might have added was forgotten when Holmes appeared on my other side and pointed at the river.

“There,” he said. “There is something moving between those two colliers.” I saw nothing out of the ordinary at first, but Lestrade nodded again and many of the bystanders were pointing it out to their friends.

Miss gra-Barak threw us a quick glance over her shoulder. “She's hurt,” she said. “Else you'd never have seen her so quickly.” By this time, even I could see there was something moving beneath the surface. The wake rose smoothly, with an odd kink every few feet that was not due to the wash of the tide. As it came to the jetty, Miss gra-Barak crouched down to meet it.

The gawkers on the other side began to mutter and shift, but we could not see what was going on until she suddenly reared back in a splash of water. My first sight of Hahnuviing was a brown muzzle tucked against Miss gra-Barak's neck, and a slim, wiry hand clasping her shoulder beside it.

Holmes tugged the blanket from my arm, and carefully descended the slick steps. By the time he reached the jetty, Miss gra-Barak had pushed herself to her feet and turned to meet him, although I caught no more than a glimpse of blue before Holmes wrapped the blanket around her burden. They spoke quietly as Holmes assisted Miss gra-Barak back up to the wharf.

“I think the lady's wounds are best dealt with at Baker Street, if you don't mind, Lestrade,” he said firmly. Lestrade sighed, but he led the way back to our cab through the throng, opening a path by his scowl alone. Holmes stayed close to Miss gra-Barak, keeping away any who might have sought to take a closer look at our newest acquaintance, and I brought up the rear with the pack.

Miss gra-Barak manuvered herself into the cab, having refused to set her burden down at any point. Once we were all inside, and the cab moving, the blanket was pushed away to reveal a scaled head, reptilian in form, marked by a sweep of red-green scales along both cheeks and crowned with two elegant horns. The creature turned a bright, intelligent eye on each of us in turn before she deigned to speak.

“I am quite able to walk, Mog. You worry too much.” Her voice was soft and breathy, but perfectly clear.

“You're hurt, you're wet, and it's cold as Almalexia's heart out there,” Miss gra-Barak replied. “Humour me.” The other _churred_ under her breath, although whether it was in amusement or annoyance I could not tell. “And the Dadd?” she asked cryptically. “It's sorted, Hahnu. Now _you're_ worrying.” The pair glared at each other for a time, before Holmes broke the standoff.

“If I may,” he said, leaning forward with interest. “I believe Miss Ashamanu implied that 'Hahnuviing' is not your original name. Could you expand on that?”

The lizard-woman twisted around to look at him from her perch on Miss gra-Barak's lap, and shrugged. “By the Hist I am named -” and here she gave a string of hissing that few could hope to replicate. Holmes made what I thought was a good attempt at it, but she shook her head.

“Close, yes, the detective has a good ear, but I hope he does not try again.” One brow ridge quirked, and she went on. “In the tongue of this city it is Dreams-Of-Wings, but I like best how the Dov name me.”

The cab came to a halt outside Baker Street then, otherwise Holmes would have likely pursued that line of inquiry, but it was lost in the confusion of getting all five of us inside. Mrs Hudson met us in the hallway, looking annoyed.

“You've a visitor waiting, Mr Holmes. One of your urchins brought - my word!” She gasped, and her gaze leapt to Hahnuviing. The lizard-woman had returned the blanket to Miss gra-Barak and, so revealed, was clearly no puppet at least. She balanced easily on the toes of her long feet, leaning forward to counterbalance the sway of a thick tail as she bowed to our landlady.

“I ask the lady's pardon for our unexpected arrival,” Hahnuviing said, self-possessed despite her damp clothes and the grimy bandage wrapped around one shoulder.

“I... well... granted, I suppose, I...” Mrs Hudson blinked and shook her head. “Tea. I'll make some tea. You gentlemen go on up.” She retreated to her own territory, muttering under her breath.

Thankfully, Hahnuviing appeared to have experience with narrow stairways and there was no damage done to either her tail or the walls as she ascended. Miss gra-Barak attempted to assist at first, until the lizard-woman hissed something that made her roll her eyes and fall back a little. Before we entered the sitting room behind them, Holmes held me back for a moment.

“Make sure you insist on treating that injury, Watson. As yet, I have seen nothing that could not be replicated by a particularly ingenious automaton.”


	4. The Weird Sisters

To enter our sitting room was to step into chaos. Holmes must have sent word to the Irregulars at some point to retrieve our original client, for their leader Wiggins was backed up against the wall beside the fireplace, watching wide-eyed as Miss Ashamanu was reunited with her colleagues. I could hardly blame the poor boy as there were at least four conversations going on at once between the three of them, involving large amounts of gesticulation and scolding. Lestrade had taken up a post beside the door, and appeared to be enjoying the show.

As we entered, Miss Ashamanu caught my eye past Miss gra-Barak's shoulder and her face lit up. She spun her friend around to get past, and darted over to grasp my hands.

“Sera Watson, my thanks, my debt to thou and thine,” she said formally, and smiled. “I had not hoped for more than information to aid me in my search; that your partner brought my sisters to me is wonderful indeed.”

“Do you think we could impose a bit more?” Miss gra-Barak called over. “Hahnu isn't using that arm at all - don't glare at me like that, Hahnu! Just because you _can_  hold off the nasties in the water doesn't mean you have to.”

Miss Ashamanu looked up at me hopefully. “Would it be too much to ask, sera?”

“Perfectly acceptable,” Holmes broke in, although he should have known I would agree in any case. Shifting a chair for the best light took no more than a moment, during which Wiggins made his escape, no doubt to return for his payment once the madwomen had left.

The tail complicated matters, and Hahnuviing appeared to be in a recalcitrant mood. It took both women to coax her into behaving, and Hahnuviing ended up curled sideways on the chair with Miss gra-Barak cross-legged on the floor beside her, the two nose-to-nose and muttering imprecations at each other. Miss Ashamanu looked on next to Lestrade, apparently unimpressed, but occasionally her lips bent at a particularly interesting turn of phrase.

“Is this common for them?” I heard the Inspecter whisper. The young lady's reply was quietly amused. “Not common, sera, but parting so was not easy on us and neither wish to admit to fear.”

Preparations made, my attention turned to my unusual patient. Holmes snatched up the damp, stained bandage as soon as it was removed, taking it aside for inspection. The tunic must have been sliced apart afterwards to allow treatment, for there was no resemblance between that cut and the long shallow gouge beneath it.

“A launch, perhaps?” Holmes asked over my shoulder, and Hahnuviing twisted her head to eye him. “It must have been travelling fast to come up on you from behind.”

The lizard-woman half-shrugged, keeping her injured side still. “The waters are noisy, and the boats unfamiliar. I dive deeper to avoid the hull, yes, but not enough, and so I am wounded.”

The wound was already healing nicely and stitches would not be needed, which was just as well since I had no needles sharp enough to pierce the tough hide. The scales also seemed to hide bruising, for she flinched when I laid my hand where they appeared undamaged. There was no sign of infection yet, but I decided that an antiseptic would be wise: the River is neither clean nor kind.

Hahnuviing continued to watch avidly as I cleaned and bandaged her shoulder, and bound her arm carefully to her side. Though I seldom like to be under such scrutiny at my work, the turn of her head kept those sharp horns angled away from me, and she was still no worse a patient than Holmes at his best.

“There do not appear to be any bones broken,” I said. “But you should be careful until you can speak with a doctor who knows your kind better. I do not think this will cause you lasting harm, in any case.”

She turned back to Miss gra-Barak and made a rude noise. “Told you so.”

“Told _you_  so,” the other retorted, and pushed herself up off the floor. Miss Ashamanu had her hand curled over her mouth, attempting to cover a wry expression.

“Perhaps we should turn to business,” she interjected. “For I owe the doctor and the detective both for their aid, and I would prefer to settle that debt before we return to our task.”

With that in mind, we returned to the seats by the fireplace - or, in my case, attempted to do so: Holmes snagged my arm and gave me a questioning look.

“I have no idea what she truly is, beyond a living creature,” I whispered, “but I would stake my name as a physician on that much.”

He looked over at the trio lined up on the sofa. Miss gra-Barak and Hahnuviing were once again bickering, while Miss Ashamanu was searching her bag. Lestrade had decided to return to his position by the door, but I suspected that he was ready to move in an instant should Miss gra-Barak become difficult.

“Argonian,” he said thoughtfully. “Which implies an 'Argonia', if it is intended to be a nationality. A _good_  hoax would mix recognisable truth with the falsehoods, but there is nothing recognisable here at all. So, it is either a bad hoax, or...”

“Or?”

“Something improbable,” he muttered.

“Not impossible?” I asked, and Holmes laughed briefly.

“Plainly not, since you can see for yourself that she exists.” He looked up as Miss Ashamanu rose from her seat again and approached us hesitantly. She smiled briefly at me before she turned to Holmes with a solemn look.

“My store of local coin is thin,” she said, holding out a square metal object with two hands. “But if it pleases you, I would offer a puzzle worthy of your talents in return for your assisstance.”

Holmes took the cube carefully, and raised an eyebrow as he weighed it in his hand. “A puzzle-box. And you know neither its solution nor its contents,” he stated, and smiled slightly when Miss Ashamanu nodded. He tilted his head towards me. “Given this, I am curious to see what you have for Watson.”

Miss Ashamanu took a smaller object from its cradle in the crook of her arm, presenting it like the first, across both hands. “For your aid, sera, I would offer a blade such as the healers of Morrowind wield, in the hopes that it might be of interest and use to you.”

Tucked into a narrow folder barely three inches wide, at first it looked more like a pen than a knife. The blade of the scalpel was a pale, translucent green with the smooth-scalloped look of volcanic glass, twice the length of a pen nib, while the hilt was wrapped in creamy leather just coarse enough to make an excellent grip.

“A lovely thing, indeed,” I said. “Some form of obsidian, is it not?”

“And alit-hide wrapping,” she agreed, giving the knife a wistful smile. “A rare thing now, for most of the beasts perished during the Red Year. Nasty creatures, but they did not _quite_ deserve that fate.”

Holmes hummed thoughtfully, and brushed past us to the hearth where he dropped the cube on the mantlepiece and picked up his clay pipe. “Now that _that_ is done with,” he said, watching the room from the corner of his eye as he refilled the pipe. “Perhaps we might discuss the matter of the painting.”

No doubt I appeared as confused as Miss Ashamanu, for I could see no reason for the change in topic. Lestrade, on the other hand, came to attention like a terrier catching a scent. Hahnuviing had a natural advantage at looking inscrutable, but dismay crossed Miss gra-Barak's broad face before she composed herself. She looked away for a moment, fingers fidgeting with her cuffs, but her lips stayed firmly closed.

“As might have been expected by the state of their warehouse, Mathers' gang specialised in obtaining artworks - paintings, generally - for wealthy clients without concern for the law: a surprisingly profitable trade, given that their customers could never openly display their acquisitions. It is certainly not past the bounds of probability that the work of an artist with a curious background might catch the attention of some nouveau-riche American or eccentric European nobleman, and an order placed for a specific item.” Holmes spoke quietly, but his voice could be heard clearly in the utter silence of the room.

“Richard Dadd, for example. In '43 he killed his own father, believing him to be the Devil, and fled to France. A simple case as crimes go: the man confessed upon capture and was committed to Bethlam Royal Hospital. The doctors there, and later at Broadmoor, saw fit to encourage his - not inconsiderable - artistic abilities.”

Miss Ashamanu gave me a quick glance and moved over to the sofa, taking a seat beside Miss gra-Barak and laying a gloved hand on her wrist. The other woman watched my friend steadily, hands clasped together in her lap to keep them still.

“The art collection at Bethlem is surprisingly extensive,” Holmes went on. “Every scribbled paper or wodge of clay that appears of artistic or therapeutic interest is retained for a time; although the custodians do, of course, value some more than others. That portion of Dadd's oeuvre held there is perhaps not as well cared for as it might be in a gallery, but the absence of a single watercolour sketch was noticed less than a day after the storeroom was ransacked.”

“I suspect that the police will not find that sketch in the raided warehouse.” He gave Miss gr-Barak a fixed look, and she lifted her chin in response.

“What do you want of me?”

“Its return will do, for starters.”

Miss Ashamanu leaned forward, breaking into their conversation. “And what would you have us say to the Prince when we return home with empty hands?” she asked bitterly. “He will not react well, and Seryo Haskill will be displeased with us for upsetting Him.”

“Seryo...?” Holmes asked.

The lizard-woman muttered under her breath, and spoke up. “Haskill is the chamberlain of Lord Sheogorath,” she explained. “He has but little liking for us poor mortals.”

Holmes tapped the mantlepiece absently as he thought for a moment. “And if we offered protection? Foreign royalty is all well and good, but if you merely do not return...”

“We haven't a choice!” Miss gra-Barak surged to her feet, and Lestrade darted forward to grasp her arm. She cast him a quick glance over her shoulder and, whilst she did not sit down again, nor did she attempt to pull away.

“You aren't listening, sir,” she pleaded. “Things turn out as He wants, one way or another, and even Sir Haskill can do naught more than - ”

She stopped as Lestrade cursed aloud, his eyes wide and horrified. While the woman spoke, he had maintained his grip on her left elbow as a precaution against flight. He became, therefore, the first of us to notice when the limb began to _evaporate_ \- not, as might have been wildly guessed, into thin air, but into butterflies.

The inspector's hand closed upon a small specimen of Lepidoptera streaked with blue and orange, and he stumbled back as many more fluttered up around his head in all the colours of the rainbow. Miss gra-Barak, on the other hand, watched the transformation sweeping up her arm toward her face with fearless curiosity. I rose to my feet with the others, but neither I nor Holmes dared to approach the brightly-tinted swarm that swirled around the trio, growing in size as we watched.

My last sight of Miss Ashamanu was glimpsed between fluttering wings as she nodded politely in farewell, gracing me with a sardonic smile. Their numbers increased until they filled the room from wall to wall, so thick now that there was less visibility than in a proper London fog and no way of knowing where they were coming from. I clasped a hand over my mouth and nose as the churning quickened and soft wings brushed against my face, wondering what the Yard would think when they found us all choked to death by butterflies. Given what Holmes had got up to in the past, I feared that they would not be at all surprised. The butterfly-storm rose to a peak, spinning around us like a typhoon, rustling against the walls, dimming the light - and stopped.

The swarm poured out of the room, through the now-open door, and in an instant there was only Holmes, Lestrade, and I, standing bewildered in an otherwise empty room. A few baffled insects were lodged in amongst the books and the curtains were smeared with iridescent dust, but the only trace remaining of our visitors was Harry Soak's coat still neatly hanging on the rack. There was a cough, and we looked up to see our landlady frozen in the doorway, laden with the tea service.

“Alright then,” Mrs Hudson said, her eyes wide and her voice an octave higher than it should be. Her hair was mussed, and a single, pale green butterfly rested between the the milk jug and the sugar bowl, gently stretching its wings.

“Alright then,” she said again, and she turned on her heel and marched back downstairs.

The tea, sadly, went with her.


End file.
